


To Run Forward and Never Look Back

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Years, gratuitous parkour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first step to moving on is to get a good pair of shoes. (Written for the AC kink meme)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Run Forward and Never Look Back

**Author's Note:**

> So, a bit of background for this one—Altair is an up and coming writer and Malik is his editor-turned-boyfriend. It’s not important to the story, but I thought I should clarify since it’s a modern AU, ahaha.

For Christmas, Malik receives a pair of sneakers from Altair

They’re good shoes—sturdy and comfortable on Malik’s feet. Light, too, so he knows that they’re made for running. Turning them in his hands, Malik decides that he likes them well enough. After all, it doesn’t matter if he has given Altair an expensive Apple computer to write his book (his desktop’s a piece of shit anyway); a gift is a gift, so Malik settles for seeing Altair’s reaction, which is a good mix of being both dismayed and delighted.

“Didn’t we agree on a budget limit?” Altair huffs, but his hands are busy opening the chic, white packaging.

For the next few hours, he fiddles around with the laptop while Malik takes a full minute to put on the shoes, walk round the living room, and place them back in the box, oddly disappointed. Yet Altair is never one to spend money on frivolous items, and Malik, with a growing tightness in his chest, knows that when it comes down to him, Altair would never be so thoughtless. 

The shoes are important in some way, and though Malik doesn’t understand, he is willing to wait until he does.

* * *

  
On New Year’s Eve, when Malik is packing his dinner leftovers in Tupperware containers, Altair calls him over the phone and asks, “Any plans for tonight?”

It’s an odd question, given that they never celebrate holidays together. Or, at least, not in the traditional way couples do. By some silent agreement, there had been no special date on Valentine’s Day, no candy to give on Halloween, and certainly no mistletoe to hang over their doors. Even for their first anniversary, Altair had merely curled next to Malik on the couch, watching recaps of a football game from months ago. 

And last New Year’s Eve—well, that had been the year Kadar died. Malik knows he’ll never get over it; the pain is still sharp and it lingers in his mind even on the brightest of days. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t mind the lack of holiday festivities, as celebrating always brings along the bitter observation of an empty chair during Christmas dinners. No, it’s better to bury himself within his work, and believe himself happier for it.

“I have some papers to edit,” he replies, and thinks of Kadar, who would have enjoyed watching the fireworks from the top of their apartment building.

Altair must have heard something in his voice. He says, very firmly, “If you finish in time, I’d like you to meet me at the bell tower twenty minutes before midnight.”

Malik hesitates. The fireworks would be beautiful to see from that height, much better than seeing them from Malik’s apartment or Altair’s tiny flat.

“It won’t be opened,” he says, shutting his eyes.

“Wear the shoes I gave you,” Altair suggests then, after a moment, adds, “And leave your window open too.”

And, suddenly, Malik understands.

* * *

  
The bell tower Altair speaks of is a part of the Cathedral of the Forty Martyrs, exclusively known to toll every hour, much to Malik’s annoyance at times. From the top, the view lays out the city of Halab, a pretty picture of twinkling traffic lights and the silhouettes of buildings that speak of a much older era. It is where Malik finds himself on New Year’s Eve, fifteen minutes before midnight, chilled to the bone and feeling rather apprehensive. He has traded his usual dark slacks and button-down shirt for a pair of torn jeans and a hoodie that has seen better days; it feels foolish—and it’s been a long time since he had done this.

Altair is waiting for him by the time he reaches the top, wearing a pair of faded sweatpants and an old zip-up sweater. Malik peeks his head over the edge and sees him looking wholly at ease, legs dangling from the roof with a thoughtful smile on his face, barely visible by the street lamps below.

The climb has not been easy for Malik. His right shoulder throbs and there had been times when he had hung frozen on a ledge, unable to pull himself up because of an arm that isn’t there. It frustrates him, even more so when he crawls onto the roof with a sigh that sounds all too relieved.

“Don’t look so tired, Malik,” Altair says, helping him up to his feet. “We’re just getting started.”

Malik scowls, turning away to take in the view he would normally see through a glass wall. The wind is cold on his face and he takes a breath.

“This is a stupid idea,” he says.

“And yet here you are,” Altair smirks, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a roll of tape. “Give me your arm.”

It’s poor choice of words, and Malik is about to point out that he has  _already_  given Altair his arm, but that is no way to end the year, so he falls silent and allows Altair to tape his sleeves and the cuffs of his pants down.

To say that they had dabbled in the art of parkour as children would have been an understatement. Malik had lived for it, and so had Altair, even as they became adults in a world that required nothing more than to sit behind a desk and push pencils. Back then, they had been more rivals than friends, racing, jumping buildings, running and tumbling and getting hurt, together, and it’s the most fun Malik remembers having in his life.

But then had Kadar died and Malik lost his arm, leaving him to quietly put away those hours spent flying over rooftops, laughing with the wind. 

Now, looking into Altair’s bright eyes, Malik just feels old and tired.

“You know I can’t race against you, Altair.”

Altair snorts and shakes loose a set of handwraps from his pocket. Taking Malik’s hand, he begins to roll the elastic over Malik’s palm, fingertips cold against his wrist.

“Race against me? No, the only thing we’re going to race is  _that_ ,” he says, and gestures over his shoulder to the bell. “I’d say we have about fifteen minutes now. You left your window open, right?”

The bell tower is, technically, not far from Malik’s home. He can see the tall insurance billboard near his apartment from where he sits, but it still looks distant, despite being an easy walk or cab ride over. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but takes the extra pair of handwraps instead. 

“Mad,” Malik eventually mutters as he finishes wrapping up Altair’s hands. He stands and looks down at the other man with a frown. “Quite handsome, infuriatingly endearing, but absolutely and wholly  _mad_.”

“Your words wound me, dear heart,” Altair drawls, leaning against Malik to tie a glowstick around one of Malik’s belt loops. He cracks it and gives it a little shake before tying a second one around his own waist.

Together, they take five steps back from the rooftop. Parkour only asks for the shortest route possible, and that is a straight line from the bell tower to Malik’s little apartment on the third floor. Malik looks across at the next building over, and feels his stomach turn.

Two years ago he would have jumped without a second thought. Now he isn’t so sure if he would make it.

He glances at Altair, who is also judging the distance for the jump. Apparently Altair is a little out as practice as well.

Malik says as much, just to stall, but Altair gives him a crooked grin, wind whipping back his hood and stinging his cheeks to a fine, pinkish shade.

“I can’t think of a better way to meet the New Year than to charge straight into it, head first and running,” he says, and there is no use hiding the merriment in his eyes. 

Malik stares.

“You know,” he begins, “Ever since you started liking books, you’ve gotten horribly poetic.”

“I— _what_?” Altair sputters, but Malik is already gone, leaping off the tower without another word.

* * *

  
The first jump is terrifying, as is the second and third ones. By some miracle, Malik’s instincts kick in so that he lands on his feet and rolls forward over his left shoulder each time. His ankles tingle after every landing, but that is all, and the quick flash of pain is even vaguely familiar to him.

By the fourth leap, Malik’s thoughts are free enough to notice how the wind tugs at his clothes with little resistance, thanks to the tape, and hear how his shoes scrape and click against the clay tiled roofs. He starts to see the dark outlines of obstacles in front of him, rather than focusing solely on what little the glowstick provides. He learns again how to feel for a grip against a wall of bricks, and recognize what ledges would support his weight. Most of all, he is reacquainted with the pounding of his heart and the adrenaline pumping through his whole body. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear Altair pant for air, only to realize that it is himself, and Altair is ahead by two windows.

This will not do, so Malik ignores how his lungs scream for more air and speeds up. Altair may claim that it isn’t a race, but Malik can hear the other man’s soft hisses whenever he takes the lead with a shortcut or just by being  _faster_. The thought sends a triumphant shiver down Malik’s spine. It’s hot, suddenly, and he feels the weight of the night’s run in his muscles, burning but wanting at the same time.

And there are also times when they work together, flowing as smooth as silk. A high wall comes up, the solid concrete unmarred by cracks, and Malik allows Altair to run ahead to a halt at the bottom and lace his fingers together. Malik keeps running, doesn’t stop to ask if Altair’s ready—he knows, and he doesn’t have the breath to waste otherwise—and Altair boosts him up with strong hands.

Malik scrambles over the wall and, using his weight as an anchor, throws a hand to pull Altair up along with him.

They run like this for the rest of the night, the rest of the year.

Before he knows it, Malik can see his open window right in front of him, and all that’s left to do is to climb down into the alleyway then back up through the fire escape. 

Altair is already climbing down, and Malik kneels to do the same, but from the corner of his eye, he spots an abandoned mattress, slumped against his side of the building.

It’s probably full of ticks, he thinks, or broken springs, stained with things he’d rather not know about. 

That still doesn’t stop him from jumping though. With a calmness that he hasn’t felt in years, Malik steps off the ledge.

He can hear Altair give a shout of surprise, and maybe he surprises himself too. A laugh escapes from his throat as he falls, and Malik thinks, oh. 

 _Oh._

The air gets knocked out of his lungs and a murky cloud billows out from the old mattress, covering Malik in a layer of dirt and dust and god knows what else. He lays there for a moment, dazed and coughing, but laughing all the same. 

Altair lands next to him, sending up another cloud of dust, and grips his arm.

“Malik?” he asks, breathless, but there is a faint trace of worry in his voice.

Malik grins, enjoying the sight of Altair sweating and covered in dirt, the high flush of color on his face, and the tear on the right sleeve of his sweater from where it had snagged on a chain-linked fence. He stands, a little wobbly at first, but it’s easy to reach out and tug Altair to his feet.

“There’s no time,” he wheezes, oh—he’s  _still_  laughing.

As if to prove his point, the bell tower starts to ring. 

The sound gets Altair to spring into action, pushing Malik towards the fire escape ladder. A boost and a helping hand gets them up quickly, their footfalls are rattling the metal stairs, loud and unrepentant. 

For a wild moment, Malik thinks they can make it with three bell tolls to spare. He touches the window while the fifth toll is echoing in his ears, and pulls himself in.

 _Six, seven…_

He becomes stuck in an instant, with Altair wedged right next to him. 

“Goddammit, Altair,” he shouts, and he loses count of the bell.

This time, Altair is the one laughing uncontrollably.

* * *

  
They eventually flop through the window, just in time to hear the fireworks go off.

Malik can’t see them since he’s too busy lying on his bedroom floor, trying to catch his breath. Beside him, Altair is no better, lips parted and chest heaving. They are covered in filth, getting dirt on the carpet, but Malik can’t bring himself to care. He reaches over to feel Altair’s heart beating against his hand, keeping it steady when Altair rolls over to face him. After running over rough brick walls and jagged asphalt streets, the soft sweater is a strange sensation, and Malik notices the cuts on his palm for the first time, the handwrap now threadbare and sticky with sweat. 

“You’re bleeding,” Altair says.

“Congratulations, on wasting your first words of the year by pointing out the obvious,” Malik says, tilting his head to catch every cut and scrape on Altair with his eyes. He gives a small smile and relents, “And you’re bleeding too.”

They laugh, still a little winded. After a while, Malik notices the rest of the aches in his body. He doesn’t remember how he got the scratch on his right cheek, but it stings where the sweat mingles, and there’s a chance that his left knee might be bleeding a whole lot. Altair is definitely no help, throwing his arm over Malik’s sore stomach. 

“Happy New Year,” Altair says, and his heart isn’t beating quite so fast anymore. “I would kiss you, but I don’t think I can move.”

Malik groans. “Do I have to do everything for you?”

“Just this once.”

He props himself up on his good arm, glancing at the window. Outside, the fireworks continue to flash against the night sky, coloring everything a shade of blue and red, sometimes green and bright yellow. When he looks back at Altair, the other man’s face is illuminated under a stark, multicolored light before fading back into darkness. Malik smiles, and leans in to give Altair a slow, lazy kiss.

It’s amazing, really, how quickly he runs out of breath again. Malik is almost disappointed with himself, but then he hears Altair gasping beneath him, as if they were still running over rooftops, racing against time. He leans in again, and this time the kiss is heated and opened-mouthed, filthy as the dirt on their skin and clothes. Altair reels him closer, arching upwards to line their bodies until Malik can feel himself hard against Altair’s thigh. 

“I—you’d think we wouldn’t—have the energy for this,” he pants, pressing his forehead to Altair’s. He closes his eyes as Altair chuckles and rubs against the rough fabric of his jeans, inelegant but arousing just the same.

And perhaps they  _are_  a bit tired, or maybe too impatient to take off their clothes. Malik makes do by concentrating on every touch, every sensation, from the slick contact of sweaty palms to the shift of cloth over his skin as Altair grabs the back of his sweater. He sighs into Altair’s mouth, almost inaudible. 

They have all the time in the world, just the two of them, but Malik chooses to be quick—it’s not a race, Altair had said, but he can’t hear himself hiss and moan while Malik runs his teeth alongside the curve of his jaw. A few more seconds, and it seems there is never enough air between them, lodging in both their throats, only to come out in small rasps punctuated by the loud pops and snaps of the firecrackers outside. There are faint snatches of laughter, too, from drunken partygoers on the streets, blowing whistles and dragging empty beer cans on the ground. 

Altair hitches his hips upwards and Malik no longer hears anything but the sound of their soft cries. He buries his face into Altair’s neck, bearing down all his weight into a sloppy, desperate grind. Not long after, Altair shudders under him, quiet except for a sharp intake of breath. The tiny movement, rather than the sound, is what does it for Malik. He comes in his jeans, shaky and dazed.

“Give me a moment,” he mutters into Altair’s ear, dimly aware of the wetness between his skin and boxers.

“I gave you several,” Altair replies, and nudges Malik off him. He sits up, toeing off his shoes before he stands to close the window and pull the blinds. 

Malik almost laughs at that, but the sounds from outside become muffled and he is distracted when Altair strips off his sweatpants and shirt. The light from the glowsticks still work, revealing the trail of cum running down Altair’s hip and thigh, its significance downplayed by the casual way he walks towards Malik’s bathroom. 

“I call the shower first,” Altair says, running a hand through his hair and grimacing when it pulls away with grit between his fingers.

“It’s my apartment,” Malik points out.

“Alright, as soon as you’re done lying on the ground, you can join me,” Altair agrees, disappearing into the bathroom.

Malik waits to hear the sound of water running before he stands up, savoring every strain and sore spot on his body. He looks down at his shoes, barely a week old but already scuffed and broken in. Grinning, he pulls them off and tucks them beneath the window sill.

He’ll be wearing those shoes a lot this year, he decides, and goes off to join Altair.

 


End file.
